


Land Here Again

by cedarbranch



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Michael-centric, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, what if michael just. came back to work!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch
Summary: The thing that emerges from Zemlya Sannikova is not Michael Shelley. It is a twisting amalgamation of instinct, thought and desire, and the first time it catches sight of itself in a mirror, it feels no recognition. The only thing it feels is the urge to laugh. So it does, and it doesn’t stop.It is not Michael Shelley, but it remembers being him. And it remembers the Magnus Institute.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Michael, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker
Comments: 23
Kudos: 195





	Land Here Again

**Author's Note:**

> HELLO IT IS I, ONCE AGAIN, HITTING YOU WITH A MICHAEL LIVES AU,
> 
> basically this premise is "haha what if distortion!michael still worked at the archives" and it's kinda crack but it also makes me weirdly sad?? i care about michael too much.... anyway title is from [get home](https://youtu.be/U6-s5RsEmOg) by bastille.

Michael Shelley opens a door. It is the last thing he ever does. The Spiral consumes him in an infinite swirl of sound and color and meaning, and as his senses bend to the weight of confusion, they warp into a new shape.

The thing that emerges from Zemlya Sannikova is not Michael Shelley. It is a twisting amalgamation of instinct, thought and desire, and the first time it catches sight of itself in a mirror, it feels no recognition. The only thing it feels is the urge to laugh. So it does, and it doesn’t stop.

It is not Michael Shelley, but it remembers being him. And it remembers the Magnus Institute. 

So, when the swirling settles enough for it to breathe again, it opens a new door.

***

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” says a voice that aches with familiarity.

Michael turns around. Elias stands at the other side of the hall, chin up, eyes ahead. Everything about him is so… definite. All straight lines and hard angles. It’s a striking contradiction, for a man so skilled in deception to appear so direct. 

He wouldn’t last long in the Spiral, though. No servant of the Eye would.

“And how do you propose to stop me?” Michael asks. 

To his credit, Elias doesn’t flinch. “Oh, I don’t believe I could,” he says. “But killing her now would make it significantly more challenging to stop certain other powers from completing their rituals, and I know you have… new loyalties to consider.”

Michael giggles. It’s fuzzy at the edges. “Killing her?” it says. The thought gets it laughing harder, and the sounds ripple and crash over each other. “I’m not here to kill her, Watcher.”

“But you thought about it,” says Elias.

“Yes,” says Michael. “But I won’t. Not now. You of all people should know.”

“Quite frankly, I don’t know what you’ll do. You don’t even know yourself.” Elias studies him closely. “Why _are_ you here, Michael?”

“Michael,” Michael says out loud. The name has a strange, yet familiar weight on its tongue. It is not what he is, but it could wear it. “Yes,” it decides. “That name will do as well as anything else.”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

“Patience, Watcher.” Michael looks at the door. Behind it sits Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist. The one who made it what it is. There is… no reason for it to be here, on her doorstep. It owes her no loyalty. She has unraveled its twistings and torn it open at the seams, stuffing in something that was never meant to be there, and now it stands there, aching with its ill-fitting stitches, and does not want to kill her.

Michael Shelley would cry. He would plead and shout and burn to understand how sweet old Gertrude could have done such a thing to him. Michael Shelley is gone. 

And Michael… Michael feels nothing and everything.

“I opened a door,” it says slowly. “When Michael Shelley opened doors, they typically led to your Institute. I suppose I followed the precedent.”

“So you truly don’t know, then. Well. Do you think you’ll be attempting any killings later down the road? Because if so, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

Michael laughs. “There are some things even you cannot do,” it says. “But I don’t think you have any reason to worry. I think…” 

It doesn’t _think_. The world still spins too quickly for that. It reaches out, feeling for instincts or inklings, not knowing and not caring where they come from. There is a rage, somewhere dull and deep, that wants Michael to gouge its fingers into Elias’ eyes. Something else wants to shrink away. Some other muddled, confused pieces just want to wander in a hallway until its mind and body form a single, coiling shape.

“I think I’d like to stay here,” Michael says. 

Elias blinks.

“Yes.” Michael feels its face split into a grin. “I don’t believe Michael ever formally resigned, did he?” It giggles to itself. “No, he did not… And _you_ never fired him. So I suppose I’d better get back to work, hadn’t I?” It smiles at Elias, drinking in the stoic nonchalance of his expression.

“If that’s what you want, then I’m sure we can work something out. But I would advise you to stay away from Gertrude. Now that your form is more physical, I wouldn’t put it past her to try and kill _you_.”

“Let her try,” Michael says with something like fondness. “I’d tear her to ribbons if she came close.” 

Elias adjusts his tie. “Well. In that case, it sounds as if we’re in agreement.” He sticks out his hand to shake.

Michael just laughs and pulls itself back through a door.

***

“And then he says—oh, hello Jon,” says Sasha. She sits up a little straighter—best not to look like she was completely goofing off in front of the new boss. But Jon isn’t paying attention. He slowly sits down on the couch, never taking his eyes off the door. 

Sasha throws a quick look at Tim, who makes a face in return. 

“So you met Michael, then,” says Martin, looking up from the kettle, which is just starting to steam. 

“Y-yes,” says Jon, distracted. “Has he—has he been here this whole time?”

“You worked in research before, right?” Tim asks. “Makes sense that you never saw it. It only really talks to the archive staff, God knows why.”

Jon nods to himself. He finally takes his eyes off the door, and seems to collect himself a bit. When he speaks again, his voice is firmer, more present. “What is it?” he asks.

“Used to be an assistant, apparently,” Tim replies. “I heard it went out on some sort of research trip with the old Head Archivist and something attacked them. It disappeared for a little while, but then it just… came back.”

Jon furrows his brow. “Does it… work here?”

Sasha giggles. “Define ‘work,’” she says. “It doesn’t really do much. Sometimes it’ll help out with an odd job or two, but most of the time it’s just kind of here.”

“Yeah, when it’s not killing people for fun,” Tim says, a bit sourly. 

“Oh,” says Jon. “That’s…”

“Not great, yeah. But we can’t kick it out—I’m guessing you’ve seen how it is about coming and going. I asked Elias if there was any way to bind it or anything, but I honestly don’t think even he knows. So here we are.” 

Jon stares at the floor.

Martin silently passes him a fresh mug of tea. “Welcome to the archives,” he says.

***

There’s a tentative knock on the door. Melanie quickly closes her YouTube tab and rolls her chair back a little, calling out, “Come in!”

The door opens a crack, and a face pops through. “Hullo,” says a young man. “I’m here to give a statement?”

Melanie frowns. “They didn’t send you to Jon?”

“He’s busy, I think.”

Melanie resists the urge to roll her eyes. Of course. It’s always something these days. Jon is probably either busy monologuing, having some sort of secret meeting with Elias, or being kidnapped again. “Come in,” she says, waving her hand. The man steps inside and takes a seat at the chair across from her desk.

Melanie doesn’t have much experience taking statements, but based on the ones she has taken, she completely understands why the Magnus Institute’s reputation contains something of an implicit eye-roll. She’s interviewed people who had clearly believed in their stories, as ridiculous as they were, as well as those who had blatantly made them up. She had gotten the impression that those ones had all lost bets, except for the guy who had been hitting on her the entire time. She’d had to call Tim in as a distraction for that one. 

But this guy is… different. Right off the bat, his energy is different. 

“What’s your name?” Melanie asks.

“Er, Henry Seong?”

“Right.” Melanie retrieves a tape recorder from her desk drawer. “I’ll just be recording this for the archives, if you don’t mind.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Henry fidgets in his chair. “So do I just… tell you what happened?” 

“Yep. Just tell your story. Could you give me a brief description for the intro?” 

“Uh…” Henry looks at the floor, chewing on his lip. “Well, there was this door—”

“Ah. Got it.” Melanie clicks the tape recorder on and clears her throat. “Henry Seong’s account of a door that shouldn’t have been there. Melanie King recording. Marker!” She gives a crisp clap, and gestures for Henry to begin. 

“So,” he begins hesitantly, “My aunt died recently. She’d lived here a long time, longer than most of my family, and she had this great old place in Westminster. Nothing too fancy, of course, but quite nice. I used to spend a lot of time there when I was a kid. After she died, my mum and I went over to the house to, y’know, scope out the property and figure out what we’re going to do with it, since my aunt never had kids…”

His story is fairly predictable. The aunt dies, her house is investigated, a new door appears. He returns to the house alone, opens the door, and gets trapped in a creepy hallway maze. Melanie’s heard it before, and even experienced it a couple times herself when she wasn’t paying attention to her route to the break room. 

“And there was this…” Henry grimaces. “There was this thing in the mirror. It was like a person, but all twisted up at the joints, and stretched out where it shouldn’t have been, and it just kept _laughing_ at me—”

“It’s awfully rude to make fun of others for their appearance,” says a voice, and Melanie wants to bash her head against the desk.

Michael is sitting next to her—she doesn’t bother wondering how, given that there’s no chair, space just tends to bend around it—with its chin in its hands, grinning at Henry. Henry has gone utterly still, eyes wide and white. 

“N-no,” he stammers. “No, not here, I got out, you can’t be here—”

“I can be wherever I wish to be, Wanderer,” Michael says with its impossible smile. “I thought it would be interesting to hear your side of the story.”

“Leave,” Melanie snaps. “We’re the middle of a statement, you can’t just go barging in anytime you please. And we have a rule about _knocking_.”

Michael giggles, high-pitched and echoing. Henry visibly shudders. “There is no such thing as time,” it says. “I simply came in when I wanted to. As for knocking, I do apologize, I—I believe I did the knocking before the door actually existed.”

Melanie grits her teeth. “Well, you’ve had your fun. Now get out.” 

“What the hell is this place?” Henry says, his voice shaking. “I’m—I can’t do this, not again!” He jumps up and all but bolts from the room. Melanie slaps her hand down on the desk and turns to look at Michael, scowling. 

“Now look what you’ve done!” she says. “I’ll have to put that statement on the record as incomplete.”

“Please, Assistant, you know how it ended,” Michael says. “You knew the beginning, the middle, and the end, whether or not he told them to you in words.”

“Just because you’re predictable doesn’t mean we can go around cataloguing half-finished statements,” Melanie says irritably.

Michael laughs. Its mouth doesn’t move. The sound burrows into Melanie’s ears, and she shakes her head in a vain attempt to clear away the fuzziness. “Do be careful, Assistant, or I’ll take that as a challenge,” it says. “It _has_ been a while since I got creative with the people I invite in, but I do think it might be rather fun to give it another try, don’t you?”

Melanie sighs. “I know we can’t exactly stop you from doing what you want outside the Institute, but if you’re really claiming to work here, you should at least keep our priorities in mind. Number one being, let people give their bloody statements.” She turns the tape recorder off and shoves it into her desk.

“You are upset,” Michael observes.

“Thanks for noticing,” Melanie bites out. She stands up and kicks her chair into place. “But guess again. I’m not just upset, you distorted little freak, I’m pissed off. I am pissed the hell off that I have to work with things like _you_ and _Elias_ and whatever the fuck else, that we’re out here acting like we have some great purpose, that we _help_ people, when really we’re just traumatizing them. So I should thank you, really, for being such a stunning example of what this place is all about.”

And for once, Melanie is the first to slam the door shut.

***

The break room door slams open. Martin jumps and sloshes tea across the counter. “Jesus, Tim!” he says, clutching a hand to his chest. Tim stands in the door with his jaw set, gripping the edge of the doorframe. Martin heaves a sigh and turns the kettle back on. That’s an angry rant incoming if he’s ever seen one, and they’ll need some of the extra strong stuff to deal with that. 

“You want to know what it did this time?” Tim asks. “Guess. Take a wild guess.”

Martin takes a cautious sip of the tea that’s still left in his mug. “I… assume you’re talking about—”

“Michael. Who the fuck else would it be? There was this sweet little girl, first-year uni student, maybe, coming in for a statement. I was watching as she left the room to make sure she got out okay, but the second she makes it down the stairs, boom. Walks right through a door that wasn’t there before. This is getting way out of hand.”

“Okay, well, I agree with you, obviously,” says Martin. He grabs a paper towel and starts to mop up the tea spilled on the counter. “The whole eating-statement-givers thing is pretty—”

“It’s messed up! This is supposed to be a _safe_ space for people, not a—a fucking spiderweb for it lure people into!” Tim stalks into the room at last, running an agitated hand through his hair. “We have to get it out of here, there’s got to be a way.” 

“He’s still technically an employee,” Martin points out.

“So what, you want us to _file a complaint?_ ” Tim says scornfully. “Dear Elias, the office monster has been killing people again, could you make a mark on its record?”

“No, no! That’s not what I meant, I just—well, if Elias hasn’t fired him by now, I don’t think he ever will, and he technically works here just like the rest of us, so…” Martin lets the silence stretch out. When Tim doesn’t say anything, he finishes with, “I think it’ll be just as hard for him to leave the job as it is for us.”

“Great,” Tim says. “Great. So we have to kill it, then.”

Martin tightens his grip on his mug. “Do you—do you really think that would end well?” he asks anxiously. “I mean, you’ve seen what he can do, and we don’t even really know if he _can_ die, so—” 

“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?”

“Maybe if we talked to him—”

“Would you stop calling it a _him_!” Tim snaps. He paces the length of the room. “I know you want us all to be a happy family here, Martin, but seriously? I don’t know how I’m supposed to make you understand this.” He stops in front of Martin and steeples his fingers. “Michael? Is not a human. It was, yeah, once upon a time, but that was ages ago. Now? It’s a creepy Spiral creature that keeps killing our clients. That puts it solidly on the _things it’s okay to murder_ list. Got it?”

Martin sighs. “You really don’t…” He looks away. “You don’t feel bad for him? Just a little bit?”

Tim laughs incredulously. “You’re joking.”

“You said it yourself, he was human once!” Martin says defensively. “He can’t help it if an investigation went wrong and he… well, you know. We have to control him, obviously, but he’s not all evil. He helped us with the worms, remember? And he got rid of that… that thing that wasn’t really Sasha, you know, he helped us with that, too. Imagine what would’ve happened if he hadn’t told us!”

“We still don’t know why he did any of that,” Tim says darkly.

“Maybe he just wanted to! He was one of us, he probably still has some kind of… loyalty, or—I don’t know. He came back here, and he hasn’t hurt any of _us_ , and I think there’s a reason for that.”

“You’re not scared of it?” Tim challenges. 

Martin goes over to close the door. This isn’t a conversation he wants anyone to overhear, and, well, doors have become an occupational hazard in and of themselves lately. As soon as it’s clicked solidly shut, he turns back to Tim. “Of course I’m scared of him,” he says quietly. “I mean, who isn’t?” His mind lingers a little too long on Michael’s twisted smile, and he shudders. “I just don’t think we should betray him like that. He’s already suffered because of the Institute, it’d be wrong to try and kill him now.”

There’s a long pause.

“Also, if it doesn’t work then he’d have double the reason to kill us all in revenge,” says Martin. 

The kettle timer beeps loudly. They both jump.

***

The Magnus Institute’s definition of a calm day is markedly different from that of a typical office setting. Mental breakdowns, minor murders, or particularly bloodthirsty books could all be considered rather typical daily events. It would take an outside threat, rather than an internal one, to get an archival assistant to really sit up and take notice. 

At first, no one recognizes Breekon & Hope as a threat. They simply arrive, as inconspicuous as they were built to be, and seek out Jonathan Sims.

They don’t get far. 

Michael opens a door and pops into Martin’s office. “Hello, Assis—oh, what are you recording?”

Martin hastily smacks at the tape recorder to turn it off. “Nothing,” he says, his face beet red. “Wh—Is everything all right?”

“Oh, it’s fine. I’ve just found a pair of Strangers wandering the Institute, so I picked them up for you.” 

“I—you—Michael, we’ve talked about this, you can’t just open doors on people,” Martin says, rubbing his eyes. “Can you let them out? Please?”

Michael laughs. “I could! Oh, I very well could. But I doubt you would want me to.”

Martin is silent for a beat.

“Now, hang on,” he says, sitting up straight. “When you said strangers, did you mean, like—” The rest of his sentence is lost beneath Michael’s peals of laughter. Martin waits until the reverberation fades to try again. “Do you mean actual servants of the Stranger?”

“Yes,” says Michael.

“Oh.” Martin blinks. “Well then… thank you? I guess?”

“You are welcome.” Michael beams at him. 

No matter how many times this happens, Martin literally never knows how to fill in the awkward silence. “Do you want to come and help me file some of these statements?” he asks.

Michael considers this for a moment. Martin hopes it says no.

“All right,” it says.

Martin nods to himself and reaches for the box of statements at the side of his desk. Right, then. It’s probably best that he get some actual work done. He’d been working on a poem for the last couple of hours and finally gotten it to a place where he felt it was good enough to record, but that plan is obviously out now. 

“Do you… know how the filing system works?” Martin asks cautiously.

“Michael did,” Michael says thoughtfully. “So I suppose that should mean yes.”

“Okay. Well, if you need any help, just ask.” Martin picks up the box and leads the way. He tests the doorknob, opening it just a crack and peeking through before he steps out of the room. Just to be safe.

Michael laughs at him all the way through the archives.

It’s… surprisingly normal, to work with it. Michael is easily distracted and tends to read more statements than it files, and Martin’s pretty sure he sees it eat one once, but it doesn’t cause any trouble. Sometimes it starts giggling out of nowhere, making Martin drop the files he’s holding every single time, but it’s otherwise quiet. They just work alongside each other. It’s kind of nice.

“Michael liked this part of it,” Michael says offhandedly, dropping a packet of stapled papers into a filing cabinet. 

Martin holds his breath. Michael’s trains of thought are unpredictable at best, and once it starts talking, you never really know what’s going to come next. It’s not often it talks about its life before the Distortion, though. 

“He always preferred the dusty pages to the words that spilled from living mouths,” says Michael. 

Martin risks a glance at Michael. It’s still smiling faintly. “He was always wrong about what he was, and what he wanted to be,” it says. “He did not know the weight of fear on his tongue, only the impression behind his eyes. But I do. You know, I think…” It snickers to itself. “I think I am better suited to this archiving life than he ever was.”

“I…” Martin’s throat is dry. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t really think I—”

“You do not know very much for someone who sits within the pupil of the Hungry Eye,” Michael says. Martin gets the distinct impression that he’s being brushed off.

He sighs. He can scratch out any chance of understanding, then. “I don’t really know what you’re talking about,” he says. “But I’m glad it’s worked out? I guess?”

Michael just smiles at him.

Martin asks, “Do you want to take a break and go make a cup of tea?”

***

There’s something deliciously ironic about watching Elias Bouchard. 

Michael does not know all that he knows—it is deception, not knowledge, that they have in common. Michael cannot peer into his mind and unravel his schemes, nor does it care to. The crucial factor is that it knows there _are_ schemes. 

This gives it a rather unique bargaining position.

Elias would never admit to it, of course. He always likes to be the one in charge. But he knows better than anyone else that with just a few words, a slip of the tongue, the entire world he’s manufactured within these archives would come crashing down. All his little assistants would know what he is and who he serves. 

Michael thinks it might be the first creature to ever make a Beholder squirm. 

So it won’t tell. And Elias knows that, but it’s the potential of the thing that makes it so satisfying. 

“Why don’t you just invite the other powers in?” Michael asks, lounging somewhere in the distorted range of Elias’ desk. “If you want your Archivist marked, I’m sure the Falling Titan would be more than pleased to introduce him to the thrill of vertigo. Or the One Alone. Or any of them, for that matter. You could just… _ask._ ”

Elias ignores it. 

“Your tricks are amusing, of course, but they don’t seem to be working for you, do they?”

Elias finally looks at it. Michael can feel the irritation radiating off him, though he shows none of it in his face. “I suspect they’d be working much better if you didn’t keep interfering,” he says.

Michael giggles. “It’s the least I could do,” it says. “Everyone’s been so nice and _safe_ lately. Do you make employee of the month awards, Watcher? Because I—” 

“I don’t suppose you have any plans to gouge your own eyes out,” says Elias, rubbing a tired hand across his face. 

“No,” Michael says happily. “I rather like working here, now. It is much more fun to be a player.” 

Their game might remain in perpetual stalemate, but as long as Michael has a door to open, it will always watch and smile to see Elias Bouchard exercising hindsight. It was all his doing, after all. His and Gertrude’s, and Gertrude is dead. Perhaps Elias will be next.

Michael hopes he is.

**Author's Note:**

> follow my [tma blog](spiralsandeyes.tumblr.com) if ya want :')


End file.
